Other Worlds
by Wandrian
Summary: She fell from the sky, crashed into the Impala, and died in Bobby Singer's study. Anne Raleigh wasn't exactly having a good day. But then Death mysteriously intervenes and restores her life, thrusting her into the company of the Winchester brothers, into a world where danger abounds and secrets unfold, where Anne learns what truly matters most in the end.
1. Knocking on Death's Door

"_You throw away your life because you've come to assume that it'll bounce right back into your lap. The human soul is not a rubber ball. It's vulnerable, impermanent, but stronger than you know... and more valuable than you can imagine_."  
-Death

— **Other Worlds** —  
(Chapter One: "Knocking on Death's Door")

Bobby Singer likes to think that not much surprises him anymore. He's _been around_. He's _seen it all_. Well—he surmises—_mostly_. But when the Winchester brothers barge through his front door on a hot summer afternoon, juggling something that startlingly resembles a girl between them, even he has to admit that he wasn't quite expecting this outcome from a simple beer run into town.

And he says as much.

"Holy balls of God Almighty," he curses. "You two can't even buy a couple of cases without something shedding blood. What the hell happened?"

Shedding blood, he realizes, is putting it lightly. The brothers are not mindful with her, and Bobby is about to bark at them for their lack of care when he sees the blatant look of urgency in their eyes, that their grips on her are slipping from the blood swathed heavily like paint across her skin. It is staining his floor. In one quick movement, Bobby sweeps his arm across his desk, ignoring the crash of various century-old tomes and empty whiskey decanters and other oddities as they litter the floor.

"Shit, boys," he mutters when they settle the girl down. "I ain't no army medic. Tell me something."

Sam is an open book, all shaking hands and wide, worried eyes, but possessing the steadfastness of a saint. Dean is different, a still sea on the surface with a raging tempest below, nothing but clenched jaws, popping tendons, and flashing eyes. But they are brothers, and they are Winchesters, therefore they feed off the others energy like a lifeline, hovering over the girl with the same sense of panic.

It's been a long time since he's seen it in their eyes.

And Bobby Singer has already guessed what has happened.

"She just appeared out of nowhere, Bobby," Sam says, eyebrows upturned, wiping blood onto his pants and then raking fingers through his hair, streaking it crimson. "We tried to stop, but _she just appeared out of nowhere_."

"Bobby," Dean starts, voice quiet and very deep. Their eyes lock, Dean's brows furrowing in a way that reminds Robert Singer of when John Winchester would tell him of some new supernatural phenomenon. "She fell from the sky."

Bobby exhales with a gust. "Balls," he says, eyes sweeping over the girl, trying to make her out under all of the blood, and then his eyes widen as the seconds pass. "This blood isn't because of the collision with the Impala, is it?"

Dean smirks, but it's humorless and doesn't reach his eyes. "No shit about you being a medic, huh?"

"Har-freaking-har, boy."

"Do you mind if we stop with the pointless _banter_?" Sam admonishes. His brows lower dangerously, leveling them both with a trademark unimpressed glower. The tremor in his hand vanishes the moment he presses his fingers to the side of the girl's neck, and Bobby watches as the younger Winchester's ferocious goodness rears its head. His nostrils flare. "She's bleeding out at too fast a rate and her pulse is stuttering. We _need_ to do _something_."

Bobby's gaze roams the length of her body. There is nothing discernable about it, other then she is only a little thing. Blood coats her hair, drenching her clothing until she appears nothing more than a small mass of dark, wet red. There is too much blood to tell where it is coming from. Within an instant, Bobby is more horror-struck than he has felt in a long time, and it surprises him because he is no stranger to blood or pain or death. It's the deep pang and the thrumming aftershock of guilt a hunter feels when harming an innocent that makes his paternal instinct flare.

He knows the Winchester boys inside and out, and he knows that they are feeling an innate sense of responsibility for the girl's state of being.

Wiping beads of sweat from his forehead, Bobby sighs. "Boys, this girl is knocking on death's door. I don't think there's much I can do."

"We should have taken her to the hospital," Sam says, grabbing hold of her ankles. "Come on, let's go. It's not too late."

Something flashes in Dean's eyes, something that Bobby can't quite make out. The eldest Winchester's gaze flickers down towards the girl, his teeth clenching in something more synonymous to resolute than stubborn. His hands ball into fists.

"And tell them what, Sam? That she fell from the sky? That she's bleeding out but from no visible wound?"

"In case you haven't noticed, Dean, half of what we do is make up stories. She will _die _here if we don't do something."

Dean bristles, shoulders setting in the way it does when he gears himself up against the world. His lips pressed together into a thin line. "She won't. We _are _going to do something." His gaze flickers to Bobby. "You with me?"

Bobby sighs again and feels something within him deflate a little bit. "I'll grab the first aid kit. You two peel off what clothing you can. _Carefully_."

He leaves the room to Dean muttering, "It feels like I'm seven and playing Operation all over again. Dammit, I sucked at that game." Bobby hurries to the bathroom cabinet, decade-old work boots pounding against the wooden floorboards of his century-old farmhouse. Dust motes twirl in the afternoon light, golden and lively, the complete opposite of how he feels.

Bobby Singer likes to think that not much surprises him anymore. He's _been around_. He's _seen it all_. (Well, mostly.) After everything he's had to do to make the world a little less evil, after killing creatures that should only live in myths, after watching nearly all his comrades die in the process, Bobby knows that _everything _boils down to trusting your gut.

He wonders what Sam and Dean's guts are telling them.

He wonders if they know that trying to save her is nearly futile. That the girl will be gone much sooner rather than later. That it won't matter how or why she fell out of the sky. That although she is an enigma, she is one that is going to die no matter their attempts to keep her alive.

When he returns, a shredded jacket and a saturated red shirt lies on the floor of his study. The skin beneath glistens red, dark with fresh blood that has not even begun to coagulate, but there are no puncture points. It's then that Bobby Singer realizes that she's bleeding from within, that he can't fathom how her skin seems to be seeping out her own blood.

Her chest barely rises.

Sam is bent over her, knuckles white and bloodless, eyes darting to discover some blood-chocked orifice. Dean has his arms crossed, lips pressed, eyes hard and battle-ready. His glaze flits over to Bobby and they share something words can never convey.

Blood drips over the corners of his desk. There is already a pool around each leg.

Then, when Bobby treads towards the girl, she gasps suddenly, loudly, a piercing sound that stuns them all. Just like that, the weighty silence in the room is ruptured and three pairs of eyes lock onto her. She doesn't move, but when Dean hurriedly steps forward, Sam tensing, Bobby clutching the kit like a vice, her eyes spring open like she's been struck by fingers of lightning. She cries out, a sound so riddled with anguish if causes the hair on the back of his neck to prickle.

Within the moment between heartbeats, all three hover over her, careful and muscles poised for action. Bobby still can't make out her features underneath all of the blood, but the stark contrast between the crimson and her eyes stands out almost like a harvest moon against night's swarthy purple-blue sky.

They are bright and the color of honey.

And are filled with pure, unadulterated pain.

She clutches at her chest, crying out once again in complete agony. She grabs at her skin, whimpering as tears fill her eyes, the blood on her face dripping into her mouth and coating her teeth. Bobby's breath hitches in his throat, watching her fiercely rake at her heart.

Dean is the first to act.

He pulls her arms away, movements careful but his grasp around her wrists entirely within his control.

"Hey, hey, hey," he says. "Careful. Where are you hurt? What happened—"

She thrashes against him, cutting him off, crying out once more.

Dean's eyes find Sam's, and the look of panic they share is augmented by the helplessness Bobby feels when they both turn towards him. He swiftly sets the kit beside her, popping it open and tearing out bandages and whatever else looks of immediate use. White hot adrenaline rushes through his veins when she starts clawing at her chest again, fingernails digging into flesh, as though she's trying to pry her own heart out with her hands.

He doesn't know what to do.

And then she speaks.

Dean still has a grip on her and he's struggling to keep her from harming herself, struggling to keep from harming her. Then she stills, gazing up at the ceiling, tears trailing down her face, leaving a smeared pathway through the blood and offering a glimpse of her skin beneath. Her eyes lock onto Dean's fingers wrapped around her wrists, then slowly, painstakingly, follows them up towards his face. They lock onto him like a lifeline.

Bobby watches, his heart trouncing his rib cage, nearly breathless.

"Crowley," she says, voice barely a whisper.

And then she stills, eyes sliding shut, arms going slack in Dean's grip. She's gone as quickly as she came. Bobby remains as motionless as Sam and Dean, but his thoughts are racing and unstoppable. Then, three heartbeats later, Dean is laying her arms at her side and Sam's brows are lowering and lowering over his face.

"Holy balls," Bobby mutters.

Then Dean freezes, eyes sharpening with the appearance of having some sort of epiphany.

"Castiel," he shouts, voice gruff with an emotion akin to anger, but not quite. It's a voice that only Dean Winchester can pull off, and then a look of determination fills his eyes and Sam's eyes and Bobby Singer once again thinks that the world is a better place with them in it, his world is a better place. But Dean is impatient and grits his teeth. "Cas, _come on. _We need you."

They wait, breaths suppressed.

And then Bobby notices the wide-eyed, pained expression on Sam's face.

"Dean," Sam says, voice quiet. "Look."

Their eyes meet and then fall onto the girl, who is even more still than before. The Winchester brothers gazes harden, locking onto her chest that has ceased to rise and fall. Sam is the first to look away, eyes cast to the floor and brows furrowed in the knowledge that the girl wasn't saved in time. Dean is coiled and tense, fist clenching and unclenching, bloodless and white and then full of blood-blush.

Bobby sighs, not realizing he had held his breath the entire time.

There is a fluttering of wings, like that of morning doves, like that of descending crows, and Bobby feels the presence of an angel behind them. Being in the presence of an angel makes Bobby think of stepping one foot into warm sunlight and the other into icy water, never knowing which side will take over and not trusting when both merge as one.

"Sam. Bobby," Castiel breaks the silence, voice void of emotion and filled to the brim with gravel. As always, he knows what has happened without them telling him. As always, he speaks more to Dean. "Dean, I'm sorry. She's gone."

Dean's eyes are hard and unrelenting. "Bring her back."

Castiel doesn't look away. "I can't."

"Bullshit. You brought me back from Hell."

"She's not in Hell."

"Cas," Sam says, voice quiet and almost hesitant. "She fell from the sky."

Castiel shakes his head, taking a deep breath. "She's not an angel."

Bobby furrows his brow and nods towards the girl. "She said Crowley's name before she...well, before she died."

Castiel is silent as he gazes at each of them in turn. His eyes, bright, aloof, and startlingly blue, narrow infinitesimally when settling onto Dean. But when he glances at the girl, his chapped lips press together, something ethereal and otherworldly sparking within his gaze. Bobby shifts uncomfortably, not liking the way the angel is staring cryptically at her one bit, and decides that while he's _been around_, he clearly hasn't seen it all.

Finally, Castiel says: "She's will Death."

Dean scoffs. "No shit."

"No, you do not understand," Castiel reiterates, finality in his tone. "She's with Death. He's speaking to her now as I speak to you, just on an entirely different plane. One between this world and the afterlife."

Silence fills the room, weighty and utterly cold despite the summer's heat. Nobody breathes, nobody looks away from her. It is Sam, however, the regains his composure first.

"Is..." he begins, and has to recollect himself. "Is that normal?"

When Castiel responds, his eyes flicker towards the girl, then to Dean.

"No."


	2. Welcome Wagon

Author's Note: So, a vast thank you to _BananaPudding_ and _Big Empty_ for reviewing. I'm very stoked/surprised by the amount of hits/favs/alerts this story has received in such a short amount of time. I'm not feeling the pressure. At all. (insert internal scream here)

— **Other Worlds** —  
(Chapter Two: "Welcome Wagon")

Anne Raleigh does not remember much. What she does remember is a moment of flying, that weightless sensation that seems to only exist in dreams, and then an arsenic gray roadway zooming towards her face at an ungodly speed. A speck of black. Then, a sickening crunch within as her body folds inside itself. Blood spurting her vision, erupting from her stomach, damming her throat.

The smell of old books, of whiskey.

The brief flicker of green eyes.

Now, she sits at an picnic table. The summer air is hot like before, but...before _when_? She doesn't remember coming here, sitting down, and she stares at the small plate of deep-fried cheese curds settled neatly in front of her, a dipping container of ranch dressing to the right that she sure as hell does _not_ remember purchasing. The scent of her surroundings—the recently mowed fairground grass commingled with the sweet faintness of cotton-candy, how the Ferris Wheel perpetually wafts oil ever since the summer she turned nine because it had creaked to a halt for three hours, a result of its gears not having been oiled since the year prior—sends a rippling of familiarity and panic up her spine.

It has been years since she looked upon this place. Ages ago. Hundreds upon thousands of breaths and memories and synapses ago.

Although the picnic table is nestled into the shade of a large oak tree, sweat that has nothing to do with summertide heat trickles down her back. Anne eyes the mound of cheese curds with the utmost of distrust, her mouth watering despite herself. She clenches her teeth together, glaring at her childhood surroundings.

In the distance, black smoke arises from one of the Tilt-A-Whirl's cars, catching her eye immediately. A horde of tool-wielding carnies descend upon it, but Anne locks onto the billowing plumes of smoke and feels her blood slow to a dreadful thrum. Her small fingers curl into fists, her nostrils flaring like some frightened foal.

And then she's clutching frantically at her sides, her chest, her thighs, any place where she stores something to defend herself, adrenaline humming hotly in her veins and causing a harrowing ringing in her ears. She's almost breathless with the thought: _how did I get here? _ Grasping nothing but grease-stained jeans and a holey red shirt she had swiped from a laundry mat's dryer in Texas, another round of panic grapples within her stomach.

Then anger.

"Well, shit."

"_Language_, Anne."

Anne jumps at the voice, nearly knocking the cheese curds onto the sun-baked, ant-filled ground. She recoils, blinking up at the man standing to her left, his silhouette remarkably slim and edged in nothing but sharp corners. He moves fluidly despite the cane in his grasp, and settles himself across from her on the picnic table with the faintest of smiles on his face.

If his silhouette rendered him as sharp edges, it is nothing compared to him in full view.

He sets a lime-green lunch tray before him, which bears another order of cheese curds, two Diet Cokes, and two of the largest cream puffs in existence, ones that she remembers with bittersweet fondness. The man finally peers away from her, taking a cheese curd in his slender fingers, dips it into his own ranch dressing, and pops it into his mouth with movements so controlled and so uncanny that something instinctual and leery bridles within her chest.

"Mmm," he murmurs, closing his eyes. "Extraordinary."

Anne regards him with a hawk's cognizance, keeping her distance and never glancing away. He is old. Very old. His face both gaunt and angular, lined from years of existence, with black hair slicked back to reveal a widow's peak hairline and a large hooked nose. There is something very sharp, very archaic, and very somber about his face. It is his eyes, however, that holds a predatory, penetrating stare, an expression that reads that he is a man of importance, that he is a man that possesses the knowledge of everything that is infinite.

There is something almost Victorian about him. Something inherently metaphysical.

He raises a brow and gives a single nod towards her own curds. "Are these not your favorite? Eat."

Her eyes narrow. "How do you know these are my favorite?"

The man suppresses a smile, but it reaches his eyes and ignites them, making his cold exterior seem almost cordial. It is then that Anne realizes that the crowd of fair-goers around them take no notice of how very odd he is among them, dressed impeccably in a suit and clutching a silver-tipped cane. That no one takes notice of her. Fear prickles beneath her skin, waking her up further, yet she raises her own brow at him and smothers the fear with her own brand of brashness, one that has yet to fail her.

This only causes his smile to widen, and it almost seems fond, as if he is already aware of her little idiosyncrasies.

"You always had a death wish, Anne Raleigh. Aren't you going to ask who I am?"

Anne cracks a skewed grin. "Would you answer?"

He regards her for a moment, grabbing one of the Diet Cokes and setting it next to her untouched cheese curds. He sips his own, grabs a napkin and carefully wipes his mouth, all the while watching her with a very unyielding, analytical gaze.

"You are a brave one," he states eventually.

"Reckless, mostly. Or so they say."

His brows rise. "They?"

"Alright, fine," she says, cracking another grin, ignoring how every muscle in her body quivers with unease. "My mother."

Something flashes within his eyes, something that does not seem very warm or very friendly, nothing at all like the guise he is displaying. For the briefest of moments, his eyes taper. His thin mouth thins further.

"I see. Tell me, Anne, do you _know_ who I am?"

She nods towards the fair food on his tray. "Someone who could afford to eat a dozen more cream puffs."

Rather than insulted, his eyes grow pensive. He tilts his head in question. "Did your mother encourage you to be so free spoken?"

This time wariness bites at her fingertips. She folds her arms on the table, feeling the decaying wood prick its splinters into the skin of her forearms. She tilts her head in question. "What would you know about my mother?"

He smirks, one that is less genial than his initial smile. Instead of answering, the man picks up one of the cream puffs and takes a careful bite. Cream spills on each side as the large choux pastry is sandwiched together, and he looks ridiculous doing so while attired like a dapper businessman coming from a meeting on Wall Street.

He sighs, clearly savoring the decadent flavor.

"I've been waiting a long while to try out these cream puffs," he says nonchalantly after wiping his face clean, primly folding the napkin on the table. It is then that Anne notices the large, ornate white ring on his finger, but shifts her gaze before he can catch her staring at it, shifts her attention before contemplating how the ring gave an unsteady, hot jolt within her ribcage. "I heard they're legendary."

"They are. And you're dodging my question."

"Indeed," he affirms ceremoniously. "Unfortunately it is not working. Tell me something else, Anne, do you remember how you got here?"

She frowns. Then scowls. Raking her brain results in a black haze that merely reminds her of a careening plume of black smoke, a shadow that had been following her every move. But she does not remember why, or what the black smoke symbolizes, or why it makes her feel as though her blood has been compounded with gasoline and lit on fire with the most fiercest, bottomless rage.

Her eyes sting at the thought, and she turns away from the man's severe, infinite gaze. She bits her lip until she tastes blood and until the strange rupturing of wrath abates. She clears her throat and takes the Diet Coke he offers to her, throat suddenly dry.

"I'm sending you back," he says simply.

"Back?"

"It's evident that you don't remember what's happened to you, nor the reasons why. That is well. How is your mother?"

Anne nearly chokes on the Diet Coke. She recovers quickly and attempts to pierce him with her own intense gaze, attempting even more to cover up how off guard his question has caught her. He merely raises a brow in inquiry, however, which causes her to bristle in response.

"Dead. Thanks for asking. And yours?"

He presses his lips together, resulting in them completely disappearing into a sharp line.

"You don't know who you are dealing with, do you?"

"Is this the part where I get a demonstration?"

"Such wit. Good." He cracks a faint, genteel smile, then reaches into the inner breast-pocket of his suit. His voice is as smooth, as shadowed, as in control, as ever. "Here, take this. I am sending you back, but on one condition."

What he offers Anne is a much smaller version of his elegant white-stoned ring, one that is sized for a feminine finger and just as lovely. His observation of her is very careful as he holds it out, but his expression remains void of any emotion, like he is analyzing her own expression for further study and does not want his own to tamper with the ring's effect on her.

Anne eyes him, fists curled atop the picnic table. Her nostrils are flared as realization dawns upon her, refusing to give attention to his beautiful offering, or what it could possibly mean. It feels like her lungs are abruptly deflating, punctured by a legion of needles, like an invisible, colossal force has sucker-punched her straight in the gut. The feeling of breathlessness leaves her feeling vulnerable and more than afraid, but abruptly harrowed. Her heart thuds like a conga drum against her chest, a contradiction to what she truly is.

It is so very hard to breathe.

Her voice is a whisper. "I'm dead, aren't I?"

He nods once. "Yes."

"Shit."

"_Language_, Anne."

A shudder ripples within her chest when she exhales and she shakes her head, trying to wrap her mind around what she has already assumed. His arm is still outstretched towards her, the white stone smooth and the silver band catching a beam of sunlight, held between two long, knifelike fingers. Her eyes sting.

"Dammit, sorry. What's this condition?"

She takes the ring, a tremor in her hand that she dutifully tries to hide, but fails. It is much heavier than it appears, but it feels like silken folds of metal between her own small fingers. It is not cool to the touch, but gives off a pulsating warmth that resounds through her skin and into her bones like a familiar, sweet nocturne she has known since infancy. Goosebumps rise on her arms and the thought of death momentarily eases its claws from her mind.

He is watching her intently. "You stay with the Winchesters."

Anne frowns. "Winchesters? What kind of name is that? Let me guess: they're big fans of rifles."

"They will protect you."

She bristles, nostrils flaring. "I don't need protection. I'm _dead_."

"For now," he replies, narrowing his eyes, his voice becoming clipped and acerbic. "You don't even know _what_ you need protection from, dear girl. You stay with the Winchesters."

She matches his tone. "And if I don't?"

"I won't be able to bring you back next time."

The cold finality in his tone makes her shudder. He moves to press his fingertips together, reminding her of a monk in prayer, but his steely gaze is locked onto her. After a moment he spreads his hands apart and pops another cheese curd into his mouth. Watching as he chews, his attention flits to the ring still in her grasp.

Instead of slipping it onto a finger, Anne stuffs it into the one pocket that doesn't have a hole inside, feeling a brief flicker of victory when his brows furrow upon her not wearing it. She cocks a faint smile, but it soon fades when he bits into another curd.

"Why am I here if I'm dead?" she asks, voice soft, her thick layers of mistrust momentarily yielding. "You won't tell me who you are, so I won't ask. But why do you care?"

The man sighs heavily through his nostrils at that, wiping his face with his pristine movements and whetted fingers. He swallows before answering, eyes beginning to lighten with a strange and sudden austere type of amusement. He pushes the tray away from him, standing into the sunlight and falling back into the sharp-angled silhouette, but she can feel his inexorable eyes on her, the ill-fitting smile starting to widen his grim face.

"All in due time, Anne Raleigh. You loved your mother, but remember that no amount of vengeance will bring her back."

He reaches out to her, and before she realizes what she is doing, Anne lays her hand in his, feels his coldness spread from his fingers to her own. Then there is warmth. There is fire. Searing, blistering, sweeping through her veins, wrapping around her bones, igniting within her every fiber, and she is so, so alive.

Then, abruptly, she awakens, and she smells the dusty scent of old books and drying blood and when she opens her eyes, Anne Raleigh catches the brief flicker of green and then nothing else.


	3. Rekindled

Author's Note: This was going to be much longer, but I got really carried away and decided to spit this chapter in two. I regret nothing. Mainly, though, I just massively enjoy writing in Bobby's somewhat crusty POV, of which I also regret nothing. Thank you for reading.

— **Other Worlds** —  
(Chapter Three: "Rekindled")

— — —

TWENTY-THREE MINUTES AGO

Outside the Impala, everything is gold.

A sunbaked prairie spreads into every direction like a giant gilt canvas, split in two by the pavement of a crackling highway. The light glaring off the silver rims of the Impala is gilded, each beam of the afternoon sun encompassing everything in halcyon, ovenlike heat.

Inside the Impala, the Winchester brothers cannot move.

Steam rises from the front of the car, wavering in the summertide weather. Behind, skid marks weave a jagged trail. The Impala's lacquered hood is utterly in ruins, rumpled within itself like blackened cavity. The force behind the collision had been like a beast from hell.

Dean's breaths shudder painfully against his chest, and he grips the steering wheel like a vice, eyes wide. Once he takes stock of his surroundings, namely that Sam is okay and unharmed, he allows himself to blink away the haze edging his vision and moan from the whiplash.

"Sam," he says, "What just happened?"

Sam's expression matches his brother's: hands curled into white, bloodless fists, eyes wide, nostrils flared, stunned beyond all possible belief.

"Um. I think you just hit someone with the Impala."

Dean scowls, glaring ahead at the wreckage, unable to perceive anything through the pall of steam. Abruptly, he bangs his fists against the steering wheel, sweltering with his typical brand of rash anger.

"How the hell can I hit someone? We're in the middle of flipping nowhere!" he growls, then points. "Look! There are even _tumbleweeds_."

Sam messages behind his neck, grimacing in pain, then twists his head to the side and releases the tension with a rapid-fire sequence of pops. He casts his own analyzing glance to the seat next to him, making sure his older brother is unscathed from the collision, before urgency prickles his fingertips.

"Dean," he says, grabbing the door handle. "Calm down."

"I _am_ freaking calm!"

Once outside, Dean's initial groan of distress over the Impala is cut off when he sees something red glinting through the wafts of steam. Then he realizes it's blood, wet and thick and spilling over the ruptured hood and pooling onto the roadside. Sam's eyes are locked onto it, too, and he waves away the steam to reveal the body of a girl.

She is splayed almost carefully within the indentations of the hood, looking like she had fallen asleep atop the car rather than falling from the sky and into it.

"She fell from the sky," Sam breathes. "Oh my God."

"I doubt God had anything to do with it," Dean responds, unmoving. "Dammit, this is batshit insane, even for us. She's bleeding _everywhere_."

She is indiscernible beneath all the blood, and neither of the brothers can detect where she's bleeding from; there are no darkened entry points, no one place where it is gushing from. The girl is small and unmoving. But when Sam hurriedly steps forward and presses two longer fingers to her neck, his head whisks towards Dean.

"She has a pulse."

Dean sets his shoulders, pressing his lips together in the way he does when bridling with impervious determination. Sweat trickles down his back, feeling something tighten within his chest when he moves and reaches for the girl.

The blood is slick within his grasp, and he has to adjust his grip before pulling her listless body from the Impala's hood. Her head rolls to his chest, leaving feathery trails of blood where her hair brushes against his shoulder. He can feel her blood saturating into his clothing, can feel how fresh and warm it is when it soaks clear through to his skin, can feel its dense metallic scent filling his nose.

She feels nearly weightless to him, which gives an unsettling, urgent pull within his gut.

"Come on, Sammy," he says, boots kicking up dust as he rushes to the Impala's passenger side. "Gotta go."

Sam is right behind him, opening the door and pulling back his seat, allowing Dean to hastily settle the girl into the wide backseat. Within an instant, blood stains the upholstery, the girl's arm flopping to the side like some abandoned marionette. A drop of blood falls from her fingertip. Sam's breath hitches. Dean's eyes glint.

"Bobby's?" Sam ask, slamming his door once inside.

Dean glances behind, starting up the Impala with brief difficulty, jaw set.

"Yeah."

Above, near the golden oppressive heat of the sun, a black plume of smoke disappears.

— — —

NOW

She is not the first woman to die in his house.

Bobby Singer realizes this when Castiel departs, who glances towards Dean with somber eyes and vanishes with the flapping of celestially immense wings, and he can't help but think of his wife.

Karen had chosen the red, ornately patterned wallpaper for the living room they stand within. He remembers how she'd immediately fallen in love with the detailed molding of the old farmhouse, the rich woodwork and the vast fireplace and the open kitchen. Then, she had breathed life and light and goodness into each room, dusting away all the bad memories he had of his father.

Now, the dust had resettled.

It hadn't taken long for the transformation to occur. Her death was far more haunting than memories of an abused childhood, and so Robert Singer reconstructed the living room into a library, encasing it with thousands of esoteric books on lore and religion and demonology. Volumes stacked the floor in columns, the curtains were kept drawn on bad days, and archaic papers began to pin the walls like a mosaic depicting the supernatural, all with the single goal of wiping the earth clean of the monsters who had possessed his wife.

Like most hunters, he was born from vengeance.

Like most hunters, it still consumes him.

Abruptly, he wonders if there's someone out in the world to mourn the girl's death. If there's someone who would eventually dredge up the inexplicable events leading up to it. If there's someone who would avenge her and make their own transformation from birdbrained civilian to jaded hunter. Or—like so many of the people they had exorcized demons from, those who couldn't endure the trauma of playing host to pure and unbridled evil—if she would fade into obscurity.

And then she moves.

Bobby freezes.

Her fingers twitch. Bobby's heart stutters. All thoughts cease to be. It's not a pleasant sensation to be dumbstruck—it's not something he's exactly _used_ to feeling, even in his line of work, where he is constantly tracking down and clamoring against creatures from antediluvian fables and denizens of Hell. Even the angel—who is more a righteous pain in his ass than something seraphic should be—isn't so mystifying.

Once upon a time, he thinks cantankerously, nothing surprised him. He'd been around.

He'd seen it all.

And now he's rooted to the worm-holed floorboards of the living room his late wife had once decorated, feeling like he's been caught asleep at the switch and bushwhacked with lightning. White hot shock courses through his body, zapping each one of his senses until he's feeling numb and breathless and more than disbelieving.

_This is what a blasted coronary must feel like._

It's Dean, however, that was the first to notice the girl.

Bobby can see it within the coiled tension in his shoulders, broad muscles compacted together beneath red flannel, and even his hands are quivering, clearly the fresh, resounding aftershocks of blatant astoundment. His eyes are locked onto her, wide and glinting and no longer verged with war. This surprises Bobby more; it's only Sam who has the ability to stun the eldest Winchester into dropping all of his guards.

"Sammy," Dean says, voice urgent. "_Look_."

Sam, who had been standing silent like some sentinel of old, head bowed, hands clasped, eyes staring distantly past the spot where Castiel last stood, jumps at the gruff sound of his voice. He spots the cause for Dean's consternation within a millisecond, a savant when it comes to understanding his brother. Sam stiffens, eyes reaming with a jolt of surprise.

Bobby takes a moment to appreciate the intricate synchronicity the brothers share, the bond that Hell and Lucifer and a legion of demons and an army of angels could not fracture. Pride swells inside his chest.

But then his attention is sucked back to the present, one where Sam is hurrying over to the desk, the quick thuds of his boots nearly assailing Bobby's shock-numbed senses. Dean's fingers are curled around the edge of the desk, the tendons on his forearms popping with constriction. They share a look that no words in any language—modern or cryptic—can describe, one that even Bobby cannot read, but then their concentration is grappled by the small, blood-dyed girl before them.

Because, once again, she moves.

Her eyes open, a quick switch of a light.

It's abrupt and bright, and startles the three of them that they are simultaneously immobilized. Bobby's breath hitches tightly in his chest, remotely aware that the brothers are not breathing either, but standing resolute in apprehension of startling her.

It takes a moment for Bobby to get his bearings.

"Shit," he says offhandedly. "Put me down as not expecting _that_."

"Agreed," Sam exhales.

They wear the same expressions: eyes wide like spheres, jaws clenched until their teeth ache, nostrils flaring—teetering between being struck with awe and horror. Bobby is already feeling the itch to grab his flask of holy water-fused whiskey, unsure whether or not there is something besides the girl's soul setting up shop inside her meat suit.

Her eyes have locked onto the first thing they see, and she has yet to look away from Dean.

He is uncharacteristically quiet.

Bobby can't help it, but once again he thinks of his wife dying. Then of John Winchester. Then Dean.

Or, more precisely, the time after John Winchester passed away, when Dean was struck with unfathomable guilt. Suddenly, Bobby is bridling with wariness, because he is unsure what the expression unfolding on Dean's face means, unsure of the way his brows are furrowing like they do when he's about to fill a spirit with salted buckshot. Unsure of the glint in his eyes, the firm press of his lips. The way he has yet to move or look away from her.

He remembers what Sam had told him after their father traded his soul for Dean. What Dean had said.

_"What's dead should stay dead."_

He wonders if that's something he still believes, deep down. Because, like vengeance, guilt never truly fades. Because, right then, it's showing on his face.

It's not ridiculous thought, Bobby surmises, but after everything that's happened since then the rules of death haven't exactly been enforced when it came to the Winchester brothers. Because, long ago, he had killed Karen. John had made a deal with Azazel. Sam had been stabbed by Jake. Dean had been in Hell.

And half of them returned.

Now, this girl had fallen from the sky, died in his study, and was personally reaped by Death.

It's her resurrection that has Bobby straightening with caution, eyeing her and the boys, because while it's not an impossibility, it is a definite rarity. He can count on one hand how many preternatural deities have the ability to return life, and only one has been a willing grantor.

What makes her life so meaningful that it's been given a second chance?

Bobby has no idea how to react to this. How Dean will react, how Sam will.

He gears himself up, about to find out because now the girl is truly gaining consciousness, chest shuddering as she breaths in as much oxygen as she can, heaving lungful after lungful as though a windstorm resides within her ribcage. And she is trembling. Shuddering. No longer writhing in death but quivering with life, honey-hued eyes open and wide and flitting between Dean's eyes with an incomprehensible expression.

One hand flutters at her side, and Bobby notices something very small protruding from her pocket.

Beyond the blood, he sees nothing else. It's beginning to coagulate even though it's only been minutes since the brothers had carried her inside, since she had died, and it's swathed across his palms, sticking to his skin whenever he unclenches his fists. It's everywhere, too much of it lost for anything to remain alive. Too much for any of them to see the features that lay beneath.

Too much for even a hunter to remain unfazed.

His living room looks like the set of a horror flick. Her blood has unsettled the dust that has been accumulating for years, speckled across his moldering red sofa, dotting some of his favorite books, staining his nicely unswept floor. Sam has thick streaks across his face from brushing back his hair, hands painted claret. It's Dean, however, that is utterly permeated with it.

But he's watching the girl pull away from death, back bent, hovering over her, and it's clear to Bobby that he's more aware, more alert, than either him or Sam.

The girl's rapid-fire breathing begins to calm, her hands beginning to ball together. Bobby then notices that beads of sweat are appearing on her forehead, commingling with the blood and forming milky, sanguine droplets.

Tear tracks still stain her face, remnants of her death throes, and now the sweat trails down cheeks in parallel lines.

She sighs, momentarily closing her eyes, chest rising and falling to a normal tempo.

Dean moves.

"Hey," he says quietly.

The tension in his face has lessened, but his brows are still furrowed. He moves carefully, slowly, watching her as she watches him, and Bobby wonders what kind of exchange is unfolding before his eyes. Sam, ever so sensitive to the emotions around him, remains vigilantly at his brothers side. Bobby does not move.

Another tremor rips through her body, but it's faint and doesn't appear to be causing her pain.

Dean shifts on his feet, the frown on his face deepening. He reaches out hesitantly, but then pushes a strand of her blood-clotted hair from her face, coating his fingers further, leaving a route of white-pink flesh behind. At first Bobby thinks it's a gesture of comfort, but then Dean's eyes flicker towards Sam.

"She's burning up," he says, then looks towards Bobby. "What do we—"

"Cheeseburger."

There is a brief moment of silence, then Bobby makes a face.

"Did she just say _cheeseburger_?"

They stare at the girl, who is still breathing without difficulty, whose fists have uncurled and has closed her eyes, who, underneath her veil of blood, looks to have an almost peaceful—almost nonchalant—expression on her face. Her voice is quiet, weak from death.

Her eyes open, a light brown that warms the blood.

"That she did," the girl confirms, groaning and running a trembling hand across her face. "Someone get me a cheeseburger. Extra cheese. Hell, extra burger."

When she struggles to sit upright, the brothers immediately step forward to help. They are careful as they aid her, unlike when they had initially brought her into his old farmhouse and he had almost barked at them for their inattention. Sam's shoulders are no longer rigid, and there's even a faint quirk of amusement on Dean's lips.

Bobby takes off his hat and rubs the sweat-matted hair beneath, a compulsive habit of his when needing to do _something_ but not knowing exactly _what_.

He likes to think that not much surprises him anymore. He's _been around_. He's _seen it all_. And even though he now stands corrected on the matter, he can't help but grow leery over the girl's abnormal death, over her abrupt thrust back into life. How it reeks of the supernatural. How his gut is pegging her for trouble. How she had fallen from the sky. How she had whispered Crowley's name. How Castiel had told them Death had spoken to her.

And he ruminates how Death is neither frivolous nor charitable.

That everything he does comes with a cost.


End file.
